


Broken Mycroft 2

by Marmosette



Series: Broken Mycroft [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, M/M, Mycroft Feels, Mycroft-centric, POV Greg, POV Greg Lestrade, Protective Greg, mystrade, the game is now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 07:57:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15577329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marmosette/pseuds/Marmosette
Summary: Every now and then, it struck Greg. He looked down at the video feed, and it struck him again. Disappointment. Rare, but recognisable. Always inspired by his partner.“I’m in love with a businessman. A fucking businessman.”





	Broken Mycroft 2

Every now and then, it struck Greg. He looked down at the video feed, and it struck him again. Disappointment. Rare, but recognisable. Always inspired by his partner.

“I’m in love with a businessman. A fucking _businessman_.”

What was worst was that it was intentional. This beloved partner was the most remarkable man who’d ever lived—the most remarkable mind, the most remarkable brain, anyway. “The rest is just transport,” Sherlock would say, but Sherlock was striking. Not really handsome, but his face was memorable, with pale skin that seemed translucent, high cheekbones, weird green-hazel-gold eyes, lips that had been drawn by a demented, manic angel, all of it framed with luscious dark, thick curls.

Mycroft, though, was none of that. Taller, yes; slender these days, but in a way that didn’t suggest wiry strength so much as a desk job. Fourteen miles of leg, yes. Mycroft’s complexion was more pasty. There were certainly bones in his cheeks, probably, but they didn’t make a fuss over it. Blue eyes, which were only slightly more interesting than brown. His lips were completely unremarkable, and right now as pale as the rest of his skin. His stubble was too light to really show, and just dark enough to look more like dirt than stubble. His thinning hair was still dark, at least—unlike his own grey—but while he kept it neatly cut, right now Greg could tell it was a mess, and the one curl that survived the frequent trims was about to break loose on his forehead. Yes, he wore suits well, and even three-piece ones. With garters, and braces, and a fucking tie pin even with a waistcoat.

The one bit of his appearance that Greg knew Mycroft valued was neatness—hence the braces, garters, and tiepin—and right now the bland, scruffy man sitting on the floor in the corner, under the fuseboxes of this dingy basement, had very little. His top button undone, his tie loose, the collar of his topcoat turned up. It wasn’t a cry for help, it was a panicked shriek.

“Breach, sir?”

Greg looked up at the Trojan commander. “Hell, yes, breach! Go, go, go!”

There weren’t a lot of walls between him and Mycroft, and Greg swept in behind the armoured bastards tearing the building open on his orders. The door at the bottom of the stairs was thick, but well-oiled and slid up with a minimum of clanging. He ducked underneath as soon as there was room.

They’d moved quickly enough that Mycroft was still seated, still holding his wrist, and was just looking up as Greg stormed in. There was a touch of fear in his eyes for just a moment, but then he was pulling his legs in and bracing one shoulder against the wall behind him as Greg helped him up.

Once on his feet, he seemed at a bit of a loss. More men moved past them to the featureless door behind them and Mycroft’s lips parted, wide eyes flicking over each of the men as they passed him.

Greg set his hand against the side of Mycroft’s neck, inside the upturned velvet collar of his slim-fitting coat. Mycroft’s skin was cold and clammy and the sudden warmth of Greg’s hand startled him. His eyes slid closed and he tipped his head against the touch briefly. Greg pulled the neck of the coat closer with his other hand, then gave in and put an arm around Mycroft’s shoulders to turn him toward the stairs. “Come on.”

Mycroft glanced again at the men around them before letting Greg steer him away, taking the stairs with his head down, Greg behind him.

“How’s the wrist?” Greg asked.

“Sore,” Mycroft said, his voice tight. It was the first thing that seemed like himself. His movements were sluggish, exhaustion in every step, dust all over his coat, the mere fact that he was allowing himself facial expressions showing how vulnerable he was.

“Not broken?”

“I don’t think so.”

Greg didn’t tax him with further questions until they were outside and Mycroft’s wrist was in the care of the EMTs. He’d had to remove both his coat and jacket and the cufflink of his shirt to be certain they wouldn’t need to be cut off. His movements were slow and stiff, but enough to demonstrate that his wrist was his only real injury.

“I’ll need to talk to…Anthea,” Mycroft said, hesitating before the name, then rubbing his forehead carefully with his left hand, poorly masking a sigh.

Greg picked up his jacket and coaxed Mycroft’s left arm back in, settling it across his shoulders and then helping him get his top coat back on as well, leaving the collar turned up. “No, you’ve just proved you really shouldn’t,” Greg said, shaking his head with finality. “You’re gonna go home, and you’re gonna stay off your phone and laptop, and not do anything. Not tonight, at least. We can renegotiate terms tomorrow.”

Mycroft looked up at him without lifting his head, trying to stare Greg down. It was completely ineffective; out of the corner of his eye, Greg could see his arm shaking as it was bandaged. Greg raised his eyebrows, then his chin. Mycroft held out for a moment, then exhaled and blinked, raising his head and turning to squint down the road. “How—” He broke off, then shook his head slightly. “No. I don’t want to know.”

“We’ve heard from him. He’s safe.”

That got Mycroft to turn back, eyes wide in surprise. “Well. That’s…unexpected.”

Greg had to smile, finally. “They’re both okay, as of an hour ago.”

The EMT had finished wrapping an elastic bandage around Mycroft’s wrist, and lifted his hand up to his opposite shoulder. “Elevate it above your heart to keep the swelling down, and ice it when you get home.”

Greg took a few steps away and let someone tell him something about the progress of the team still inside, but his attention never left Mycroft’s pinched, tired face. When Mycroft had finished nodding and begun easing himself back onto his feet, Greg waved off the rest of the report and rejoined Mycroft, who was looking around the scene, a bit lost.

“What you after?” Greg asked, raising a hand and stopping just short of touching Mycroft’s shoulder.

“I—do I have a car here?” he asked, his head still swivelling as he peered down the road.

“There’s mine,” Greg told him, not sure if it would be the right answer.

Mycroft lowered his eyes again and nodded. “Of course. Yes. If you don’t mind. Are you…?”

“They know how to reach me,” Greg said firmly. He tipped his head, hesitating until Mycroft took a step toward him, clutching at his coat and jacket awkwardly.

Greg put his hand on the taller man’s shoulder blade, helping to hold it. “Bath or shower?” he murmured.

“Not here,” Mycroft said. Normally, his tone would be tight and strained, his lips thin with disapproval, his eyes darting around for witnesses. Now the words were a request, an admission of vulnerability.

Greg slid his hand up so he could squeeze the man’s shoulder. “Sod that. I’m your brother’s pet policeman,” he said with a reluctant smile, looking around casually as they neared his car. “I don’t think anyone’s looking. Not like that.”

Mycroft said nothing, but his eyes slid closed for a moment and he nodded once.

 

“Bath’ll be easier,” Greg said, guiding Mycroft up the stairs at their front door.

“Yes.”

Greg pulled out his keys and began the process of disarming the alarm. “You still cold?”

“Hungry, mostly.”

Greg glanced at him, his fingers working on the keys. “Thai? Chinese?”

“Just…open the door,” Mycroft said, a hint of impatience in his voice.

Greg closed his mouth.

When the door was shut behind them, Mycroft sagged back against it with a thump, his eyes sliding closed. Greg scooped him immediately into his arms, pushing black velvet against pale, soft skin. “Aww, love. You look shattered.”

Mycroft said nothing, merely raising his good arm around Greg’s back and shaking in silence.

“I was scared,” Greg admitted in a small voice. “I didn’t want to lose you.”

“You haven’t.”

Greg pressed him closer, aware of the lump of Mycroft’s injured arm between their chests keeping them apart. His fingers dipped inside to the smooth, stiff whiteness of Mycroft’s shirt collar, disturbed by the feeling of it moving around his neck, looser for being unbuttoned. “I love you, you stupid man.”

Mycroft’s breath hitched, and he pulled away from Greg slowly, stepping back without raising his head right away. “Upstairs.”

Greg followed him up, keeping one hand on the back of Mycroft’s neck. The heel of his palm was pressed against the wool of his coat, the base of his fingers against his shirt collar, his fingertips in the soft, short hair at the back of his head. He needed the touch more than Mycroft, even. He needed to remember this man was real. For all of his immense mental faculties, his prodigious skills, his terrifying and mysterious governmental powers, he could have died. And as dull, mortal, petty, and mundane as he might have seemed to the officers who had had to tear into a building to find him, he was still the most precious thing in the world to Greg.

At the top of the stairs, Greg couldn’t take it any more. “Hey.” The soft, gentle pressure of his fingers and thumb on Mycroft’s neck made him stop and look back at Greg, his shoulders slack, his posture ruined. He shifted aside enough for Greg to wrap him in his arms, slowly pulling his injured wrist free and lifting it enough for his fingers to reach the top of Greg’s head, his other arm around Greg’s waist. Greg found himself gently twisting back and forth, rocking both of them. “Come on. Come back. You’re with me, now. This is home,” Greg whispered, tucking his chin over Mycroft’s shoulder, having to lift onto his toes to do it.

Gradually, Mycroft was moving his head. It was so slight at first that Greg couldn’t tell the direction, but after a few moments he discovered Mycroft was nodding, having to work himself up to it from the smallest movements. By the time it steadied, it was slowing along with his breath, and Greg realised what was happening.

“It’s all right. I’ve got you. We’re safe. You’re with me, and I love you. It’s okay.”

He didn’t shush him. He didn’t protest, he didn’t claim there was no need, he didn’t argue. If the Ice Man wanted to melt— _needed_ to—then he’d do so in quiet, unwitnessed safety in Greg’s arms. Greg wrapped his arms tighter, adoring him more with every beat of their hearts.

He wasn’t a genius then. He wasn’t the cold, calculating machine the government saw. He wasn’t the private vault for endless streams of information. He wasn’t the scalpel of the intelligence service. He was a quiet, grubby man, frightened and hurt, seeking solace in his husband’s arms.

 


End file.
